


Sure Things and Maybes

by orphan_account



Category: Arrested Development
Genre: Canon-Typical Puns, Cousin Incest, F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-31
Updated: 2007-07-31
Packaged: 2019-08-27 06:27:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16697173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Future fic where Maeby is some kind of high-powered high profiled professional accidentally, and surprisingly competent. Years after the finale, George Michael and Maeby cross paths.





	Sure Things and Maybes

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sure Things and Maybes](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/434566) by controlld_chaos. 



**2007**

"This movie is tanking," Mort said, looking at the title page of "C.E.WHOA!"

Maeby shrugged.

It had been six months since Mort had figured out she was a kid, but he had kept her at the studio anyway. Six months since things fell apart for what felt like the millionth time in her life. Six months since George Michael left on a boat, which had always seemed more of a Gob-like exit to Maeby. Six months since they kissed, since they got to second base.

She had not seen him in that time; she received one letter, a month after he left, that said he was in Cabo.

The details were typically odd. The house looked exactly like the old model house, down to the sports décor of his bedroom. His father and Pop Pop were talking about home-schooling him there and it was "…weird." He missed her.

She missed him, too. But she should have missed him as a cousin, not in the way she did, so she simply mailed signed annulment papers to the return address on the envelope to end their misbegotten marriage. She had not heard from him since, but he must have sent the papers in.

The state annulled their marriage for all the obvious reasons (their age and the fact that it was never consummated among them), but most of all because it was an accident.

In a desperate attempt to move on she threw away the letter he sent. Now she regrets it every day because she is not sure if she will ever see him again.

She tried to focus on the problem at hand, a tanking movie, instead of how much she missed him, but the truth was, she was bored of the movie business. It was much more fun when she was trying to hide it.

"Well, what do you want?" she asked Mort. "It's a script about a 10-year-old kid who becomes the CEO of a major conglomerate, which is essentially child labor, written by a 22 year-old film school grad."

"And I suppose you should have written it, huh confidence girl?"

Maeby shrugged and said, "I'm just saying, you found out I was a kid and I'm _still_ a movie executive."

"Yeah, well, I don't think it's the script. I think it's the advertising—or lack thereof. I want you to go down to the offices of AdFad and figure out why the fuck I haven't seen any billboards that are plastered with Dakota Fanning in a Donna Karen suit."

"Fine. I'll be back," Maeby said.

Except she never came back.

That afternoon she waltzed into the AdFad lobby, smiled at security and was waved right through. She had realized that a good walk—a confident swagger with her head held high—could get her in anywhere. While she was waiting to talk to the CEO of the company (she almost called her the C.E.Whoa), the secretary walked away and the CEO walked out.

"Are you here to interview for the Vice President position?"

"Yes," Maeby said, without thinking about it.

They shook hands and the next day, Maeby was the vice president of an advertising agency.

 

* * *

 

**2014**

George Michael Bluth nervously played with his business card in the AdFad waiting room. It had the Bluth company logo on it, with his name in capital letters: GEORGE M. BLUTH. George Michael was a silly name. Nobody had called him that since he went away to college. Certainly not since his father re-started the Bluth Company from scratch two years ago, after it had been sold to Sitwell.

They were ready to open their first housing tract, this time, corruption-free. For the time being.

George Michael was the name of a young man, or a singer/songwriter. George was the name of a businessman, quickly rising in his father's "risky" company.

He was handling the advertising for the housing tract. It was his job to find the advertiser, and he had chosen this one for a very specific reason.

How many Maeby Funkes could there be in the world? And how many could be the president of an advertising company?

He had found the company by googling her name, not "advertising + southern + california" as he was supposed to have searched for.

He had sent her one letter from Cabo, years ago. Then he got the annulment papers. He didn't know what to think. Of course the marriage had to be annulled, but she hadn't sent him anything else, no reply to his letter. Was she angry he had left? Was she angry about everything?

He was afraid to find out for sure—confirmation that she was angry with him, that she wanted nothing to do with him, it would have killed him. So when his Dad moved him to Phoenix after some time Cabo, he didn't call her.

He had heard, in snippets of conversation between his dad and Gob, who was always crashing on their couch, that Aunt Lindsay and Tobias split up. Gangee was in jail. Pop Pop stayed with them—and far away from the company and the money. But he never heard about Maeby.

And then he heard heels clacking down the ad agency's hallway, until they were dampened by the lobby's carpet, and he looked up to see her, her hair still a mess of pretty brown curls, her face still freckled, her eyes still mischievous.

"George Michael," she said, the same way she'd said his name years ago when she'd poked him in the nose with a fox's foot at the banana stand.

Just hearing his name coming from her was amazing. As their family had fallen apart, he was not quite sure he'd ever hear it again.

And then she hugged him, and he wondered if life could get any better than that very moment in her arms, but all he could say was, "Maeby."

 

* * *

 

Maeby ushered George Michael into her office, anxious to talk to him. She could hardly believe what she was looking at. He was grown up. He had lost that deer-in-the-headlights look of his, but still looked innocent, nice. He still looked like her George Michael.

She watched him look around the room, and his eyes settled on a diploma.

"You went to Yale?"

She had not gone to Yale, but there it was, on the wall.

"Yes and no," she said. "You know how it is."

Maeby was not even sure where Yale was. Connecticut? Or was it New Hampshire?

"I went to Harvard," he said, "I wanted to look you up, but then I thought maybe you didn't want me to, you know? After I left like that, without saying goodbye."

"It's ancient history," she said. "Our family was always fucked up."

"No kidding," he sighed.

"I should have written back," she said.

"Ancient history," he repeated her words. "I'm just glad you got my letter."

"So…there's a new housing tract?"

"Yeah. We're doing really well, actually. The new houses are in Newport, not far from the old model home."

"What's the development called?"

"Well, that's part of the problem. Dad's calling it 'Hasty Hillside.'"

A lot like Sudden Valley, she thinks. Maybe worse.

"You know what? Let's get out of here. Let's get lunch."

"But don't you have to work—" he stopped himself.

"You haven't changed," she smiled.

"I have," he insisted.

"Yeah, well at least I know all the good stuff stayed the same."

 

* * *

 

The drive from Maeby's office in downtown Santa Ana to the Skip's in Newport was only ten miles, but it took half an hour. George Michael did not mind.

They sit down and order drinks—real drinks, no virgin daquiris or Marys anymore.

"Remember when you decided to burn down the banana stand during lunch here?" Maeby asked.

"How could I forget?" he asked.

She laughed and said, "Yeah, I guess you don't forget about your first arson experience."

"Those were…I don't know, I was going to say good times, but you know, I mean, that story was about arson. Those times weren't always good. They were crazy. But having you around made them bearable."

Maeby smiled and said, "You were the only person in that house who ever bothered to pay attention to me, George Michael. I don't know what I would have done without you."

He felt himself blush and hoped she would not notice. "You deserve someone who will pay attention to you, take care of you. I hope you know that."

"This is getting sappy," Maeby said.

You make me feel that way, George Michael thought, but he just laughed and said, "Yeah, I know."

"I, um, this is kind of awkward to say, but I wasn't sure if anyone ever told you… I found out, after you left, that my mom was adopted. Well, not 'found out' so much as she told me when she was drunk. Which was like, all the time. I just wanted to you to know, in case you felt weird about what had happened between us…you don't have to feel as weird."

His heart started pounding.

"My dad told me, on the boat, when we were leaving."

"Oh," Maeby said, "Good."

"You know, I think deep down, I always knew we weren't cousins."

"How?" she asked.

Here it goes, he told himself. Be smooth. Show her how you've grown.

"Because, me and you, it never felt wrong. The way you made me feel…nobody with the same blood as me could have done that."

And with that, the waitress set down their Skip's Scramble, and the table shook like George Michael's hands.

 

* * *

 

After lunch they walked along the boardwalk, past where the banana stand once stood.

"Don't you have to get back to work?" George Michael asked.

Always the responsible one.

"I haven't seen you in years. I see my office every day. It can wait," she said sweetly.

"So, why advertising?" he asked her.

"It's easy," Maeby shrugged, "It's fun."

"You're good at it, I hear."

"Advertising is all about seduction," she said, knowing the words were loaded, knowing this was dangerous and crazy and she should have just kept her mouth shut.

"No wonder you're so good at it, then," he said, with a smile.

His face had changed a little bit, matured, but his smile was exactly the same, and Maeby still wanted to kiss the lips that fashioned it. Shit, what was the matter with her? Sure, they weren't related, not really, but they had lived as family.

But it makes sense that she would want him, love him; he was the one who had always tried to look out for her, who wanted to take care of her. She hadn't had that in her life, certainly not from her parents, until he came along. She hadn't had it since he left.

And now here it was. Here he was. The same but different. Better, maybe.

She walked over to the metal fence at the edge of the walk, faced the beach. He followed her.

"The boat party," Maeby began, looking out at the sea, "when we kissed, when the SEC came and started all the craziness of Pop Pop going to jail, it was right out there, on that water. I can't believe it was so long ago. I can't believe we're adults."

"You know, when I left for Cabo with my father, when he told me about your mom being adopted…he said me and you couldn't be together because a romantic relationship might fall apart, and then we would lose each other. But if we didn't get together we'd be family, and we'd always have that. And I understood what he was saying, I still do, but I couldn't help but think…"

"What if the relationship didn't fall apart?" she asked.

Her heart was pounding. It always astounded her that George Michael, goofy, doe-eyed George Michael, could do that to her.

"Yeah. I mean, I guess it'd still be weird, since we were raised as family, but we're not, you know?"

But we could be, she thinks. In a perfect world we could get married and have a family, always put it first. We could be happy.

"I want to kiss you again. After all these years, after everything I know now, I still want to kiss you," he shook his head, "Even though I'm older now, even though I should know better, even though the awkward crush should have faded, it hasn't."

She could practically feel the guilt in his voice and she knew it well. She had felt it herself many times before.

Maeby was not sure she could say anything to alleviate it, so she kissed him. Slow and gentle, cautious and wary, afraid yet again that the world would cave in around them for doing something so wrong.

But what could be wrong about George Michael? He was just so… George Michael.

So she kissed him harder, and he matched her force and her head swam and this, she realized, this is why she was single. Because she was hung up on him, as eccentric and goofy as he was, as wrong and as crazy as it might have been.

He pulled away and said, "Maeby, I, we, this…"

"I know. I know this is fucking crazy, but I..."

She struggled to express herself, until she remember his words from earlier.

"It doesn't feel wrong," she said. "Maybe we can figure out some way to try to make this work."

It was a long-shot, but so was becoming a movie executive at 15. Or becoming the vice president of an advertising firm a year later. Or accidentally marrying your cousin.

"Maeby, we will," George Michael said.

As she looked out at the vast expanse of sea in front of them, she was sure he was saying her name and not just the word, sure that the two of them, however much of a long-shot they seemed, were the only sure thing in the world.


End file.
